The foothills seem rueful and evasive today
Its outline glow seems palled and
The twilight reluctant to give up the light
Its sun a dull emboss on weak pink,
With rays like wrinkled fingers crawling.
A lethargic passing of a day
Clasped by avian claws a hare’s mangled fur
Wriggly worms feasting on rotting mouse
Crafty spider weaving zombie bags
An aloof mantis lops off her lover’s head
A woodsman felling venerable trees
The air reeking with scents of battered wood
I promised to keep this to myself
As I looked away from the scene
I shudder to think of the mayhem
Happening everyday in a sleepy glade
But, some things in the foothills
Are better left veiled in gorgeous green
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